It was late.
Daeron undressed, slid into bed, and stared up at the wooden ceiling, repeating a list of places in his head.
"Skyreach Tower, Pentos, the Vale, Skagos Island…"
All were rumored locations of existing — or fossilized — dragon eggs.
He fell asleep with those names lingering in his mind, his determination unshaken.
2:00 a.m.
Dragon-Tongue Farm lay silent. The sky outside was an endless stretch of black — not a flicker of moonlight.
Then came a faint flutter. A soft halo danced through the air, rising and dipping gently like a will-o'-the-wisp.
Daeron stirred in his sleep, the tension in his brow easing slightly.
The light revealed its source — a tiny figure no larger than a hand. A delicate fairy dressed in pink, with wings like spun glass.
"Heehee…"
The fairy flitted over the tilled patch of soil near the cottage, her eyes sparkling in delight. She giggled, waving a slender wand.
Bling, bling!
Silver dust rained down, shimmering with life. The seeds soaked up the glow as the fairy twirled once more — and vanished into the dark sky.
Morning.
At dawn, Daeron woke exactly at six. After some dried bread and water, he felt refreshed and ready.
"Time to get to work, old farmer," he said cheerfully, pushing open the cottage door.
He froze. "Wait… huh?"
The 3×3 field outside, where he'd buried nine seeds the day before, no longer held a single sprout. Instead — nine fully grown, harvest-ready crops gleamed under the rising sun.
"How long did I sleep!?"
He sprang to the interface, glancing at the corner clock:
Spring, Day 2 – Clear Skies – 6:05 a.m.
"Still the second day. Huh."
Then it clicked. "Oh — a fairy event!"
He chuckled, feeling a rush of amusement and relief.
In Stardew Valley, random nightly events sometimes occurred: witches, owls, shooting stars, falling meteors — or, the rarest and best of all, the fairy who blessed crops to maturity overnight.
"Well, talk about luck."
Grinning from ear to ear, he rolled up his sleeves. "Let's harvest."
Pop! Pop-pop!
He plucked a plump parsnip from the ground, followed by two cauliflower heads, the roots coming free with a satisfying thump. His next pull yielded a thick cluster of green beans.
"Much more sense this way — beans grow on stalks, not one at a time." He nodded approvingly.
Setting the harvested vegetables aside, he got to work on the potatoes. There were five patches to dig up — six-day crops, with bonus yields possible.
"C'mon… big money, big spuds," he muttered.
On the fourth patch, a surprising warmth spread through his body. His fingers tingled; his vision sharpened for a split second.
A small, glowing line of text appeared on his interface:
> You feel a growing awareness within you.
"Farming level up."
He straightened slowly, smiling as new vitality pulsed in his chest. He opened the panel.
Farmer: Daeron Targaryen
- Farming: 1
- Mining: 0
- Foraging: 0
- Fishing: 0
- Combat: 0
"Perfect. Level one it is."
That meant new blueprints would unlock tonight after bed.
"Harvest on day two — double profits, more seeds tomorrow. Momentum secured."
Reinvigorated, he kept digging. Every patch yielded more than expected:
Three potatoes from one spot, two from three others, and one last from the final row — ten potatoes total, double what he'd planted.
And out of those ten, three glowed faintly silver — high-quality produce.
"Not bad at all," he said… then frowned. "Let's hope this doesn't mean I'm doomed to the 'short-lived Daeron' curse."
Targaryen history wasn't kind to princes named Daeron — the Daring, the Young Dragon, Daeron II — all brilliant, all dead young.
Trying to shake it off, he headed back inside and powered up the old television.
Bzzzt! Static erupted across the snowy screen, followed by two channels blinking into existence.
He smiled. "Time to check the weather."
> [Welcome… to tomorrow's… forecast… Expect rain all day tomorrow.]
"Perfect," he said. "Spring, Day 3: Rain. No watering tomorrow."
Then he flipped to the next channel — fortune-telling.
> [The spirits are very happy today! They'll do their best to bless everyone with good fortune!]
Daeron exhaled. "Thank the gods — not a cursed day."
Every pixel farmer knew the rule: the spirits' moods determined the day's luck. The scale ranged roughly between +0.125 and -0.075 — subtle, but crucial.
Ranked from best to worst:
The spirits are very happy! → You're in luck today! → Neutral. → Spirits are somewhat annoyed. → You're unlucky! → The spirits are furious!
Neutral days were wild cards. But "very happy"? That was the apex — an Iridium-level Lucky Day, the kind where everything just clicked.
Daeron grinned. "Excellent. I'll live long, profit long, and thrive long."
Aside from those two constants — Weather and Fortune — the TV occasionally played two more shows: Living Off the Land and The Queen of Sauce, offering tips on farming or recipes for cooked dishes.
"Better forecasting than half the sorcerers in the woods," Daeron said with mock solemnity.
He resolved to take the old TV wherever he went from now on — luck was too valuable to ignore.
With the harvest complete and his fortune riding high, Daeron stepped outside again.
The crops filled two full inventory slots by quality alone, so he grabbed his axe and felled two thick pine trees to free up space.
Thunk! Thunk-thunk!
The sound echoed across the valley as each giant fell with satisfying weight. The enchanted axe made short work of them — lightweight, unbreakable, yet somehow stronger than steel.
When done, his resource count grew considerably:
77 wood, 17 stone, 27 fiber, 38 sap, and one pine seed.
He opened the crafting menu. A chest required 50 wood — easy.
With a faint shimmer, a bronze-colored chest — as ornate as pirate treasure — appeared before him.
The legendary "chest" of Stardew Valley: a pocket-dimensional container with 36 slots. Portable when empty, immovable when full.
Anyone else would need magic to make such a thing. Here, it was science — or rather, system tech.
Daeron laughed quietly. "Guess I really am a wizard now."
He packed all materials and harvested crops neatly inside.
Next up: restock seeds, check on the chicks, and — oh, right — check the mailbox.
If the message had arrived from the beach, it would mean one thing.
Time to get his fishing rod.